


Red Sky

by DashieP



Category: The Masked Singer (US TV)
Genre: Kinda dark?, Prequel to the Show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DashieP/pseuds/DashieP
Summary: What inspired our favorite spaceman to leave his home and come to Earth?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Red Sky

The sky is burning above him, bright red marred with streaks of black smoke as fires tear up the world below. The smell of death seeps through the doors of the docked ship, and Cadet # 27876 feels the tight grip of fear across his heart. He tries his best to maintain composure, silently hoping the shaking of his knees isn’t too visible. He busies himself with checking his weapon again.

All around him the other cadets are doing the same. He wonders if they’re as scared as he is. They’ve all received the same amount of training, but no virtual simulation could properly capture the stench the battlefield has. It’s unavoidable this close to the action; the filter of his helmet does nothing to disguise the sickly sweetness that taints every breath he takes.

The announcement to split into preassigned squadrons comes over a loudspeaker. Seventy-Six makes his way over to his designated group, not making eye contact with the cadets around him. His instructors had advised them all to avoid making unnecessary connections to other foot soldiers. Instead he stands at the ready, going over his orders in his head.

The landing is bumpier than he expects, causing him to stumble into another soldier. He mutters an apology, straightening up and resuming his place in line. Silently the unit moves off of the aircraft and into the field. Seventy-Six marches in sync with the others, all focus on keeping his breath steady. It’s so chaotic around him: he sees insurgents sprinting across the terrain, another one falling every couple of seconds; there appears to be a medical pod on its way to assist the injured but it never reaches its destination, shot down by an enemy missile. He swears he can almost hear the screams of the people inside it, hurtling towards a fiery demise. He forces himself to look away before it impacts. He swallows thickly, pushing the incident from his mind. If he’s to survive the mission, he’ll need his wits about him.

~~He can’t help but send silent condolences to the families of the medical team, however.~~

He focuses his eyes on the cadet in front of him. Their uniform is identical to his, down to the slight dents in the holster where their weapons rest. They were ever so slightly taller than he, belt resting a couple inches higher than his does. Was he abnormally short? This cadet was mostly legs, long and lean. He works twice as hard to keep pace with them. He notices that they have a small trinket poking out from a pocket. Squinting, he recognizes it as a small figurine. He starts to wonder how they managed to sneak it past the Superiors, but the call to halt pulls him from his thoughts. ~~~~

His squad has made it to the stronghold, single filing into the dank underground cellar. He looks over the group and feels his stomach tighten at the count. Thirteen. They had started out with twenty.

They had lost seven members, all in the span of a ten-minute walk.

Seventy-Six feels faint.

How had they died?

Had anyone even noticed?

He grabs hold of a table to steady himself, his heart racing. He wants to vomit, but he knows how much trouble he would be in if he did. He’s struck cold by the idea that he could be dead within the hour. Sure, he was aware that he was being shipped into a war zone, but the gravity and realness of the danger hadn’t set in until now, the taste of death dancing on his tongue. He gags silently. Whose death scent was clinging to his armor? Was it someone he knew? What if it was the soldier he had bumped into, back on the ship? He closes his eyes to steady himself.

By the time he regains some composure, the unit is preparing to move out again. They’re needed in another barrack, there to relieve the weary and broken cadets sent out before them. He picks up his small pack and places it on his shoulder, falling back into line and resuming the march. He tunes out the screams and moans of the terraranans, laying broken in the ruins of their streets. It isn’t his duty to aid them. The Academy would surely send more medical teams, if there were enough to spare.

The scenery only grows worse as they go. Where there were complete buildings earlier, now all that remain are husks and burning embers. The number of straggling survivors has diminished greatly, leaving only the dead or dying behind. Some bodies lay mutilated beyond recognition, the heat of the fires around them strong enough to cause their skin to bubble. It’s a gruesome sight to behold. Some of the aliens still have the wherewithal to feel the pain, and he watches as they writhe in agony, attempting to put out flames that are no longer there. The sinking feeling in his belly returns with a vengeance. He bites his lip under his helmet, trying to hold back the nausea fighting its way up his throat. The bittersweet death scent’s gone now, overpowered by the stench of burning flesh. He clutches his weapon a little tighter.

The fire-ravaged buildings give way to a large crater in the ground, deep and wide. Seventy-Six knows what left it: a long-ranged missile strike. He has seen photographs of the effects in the Classroom, but to see it first-hand is completely different. What had stood here before? He’s unable to stop himself from wondering. He hopes there were no children nearby, though he doubts they would have been able to evacuate in time. The explosion wiped out a majority of the bodies, leaving only a few stray limbs scattered about. The unit continues mercilessly, stomping over ground that, only a few days ago, had been teeming with life. He hates this; hates the way they come and take everything, leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake. It’s a criminally treacherous thought to have, but one that won’t leave his mind either way.

Somewhere far ahead of him, a cadet slows down. This causes the line to stagger a bit, uncertain what the issue was. Seventy-Six leans to the left, trying to peer around to see what was going on when he hears a sharp whistling sound. It’s vaguely familiar, pitched high enough to hurt his ears. In confusion he looks around, only realizing the danger he’s in when he feels the earth give way under his feet.

Pain is all he can feel at first. It’s as if he’s floating on a sea of lava, burning every part of his body. Is this what those poor natives had felt? His eyes refuse to cooperate with him, so he tries to take blind stock of his body. He doesn’t think he’s lost any limbs, but his left arm feels incredibly numb. He must be lying face down on something given the pressure on his stomach. It’s not ground though, it has too much give. Maybe water? His belt did function as a floatation device, in case of emergencies. He wiggles his toes experimentally, relieved to find them responsive, if a bit delayed.

Seventy-Six tries to take a deep inhale but begins coughing as small rocks hit his face. Something must have punctured his oxygen tank.

_Oh, flarg._

He tries to remain calm. He estimates about ten to fifteen minutes before his situation becomes dire, plenty of time to locate and replace his defective one. They couldn’t be that far from the trenches, maybe another solider had an extra? First things first, however, he needs to get himself up.

It’s a painfully slow process, but eventually his eyes crack open, immediately wincing as bright light disorients him. He blinks once, twice, three times and finally the world shifts back into focus. He’s relieved he isn’t blind, but that feeling only lasts for a few seconds before he processes what he sees.

He’s not laying in a pool of water. He’s lying on a person. A person who has no legs.

Bile crawls up his throat again and this time he barely manages to open the hatch to his visor before he’s vomiting everywhere. His chest heaves as he pukes, almost choking on it. He notes that it’s tinted in red, which is probably a bad sign. He ignores it for now, knowing there’s nothing he can do about it.

Seventy-Six wipes his face, seals his helmet again and turns his attention back to the cadet before him. Their legs have been severed at just above the knee, bloody and coated with a fine layer of grime and dust. His attention is drawn to the belt, where a small burned figurine has melted into the metal. The dull gold of the suit is stained by the black oozing plastic material. This corpse must belong to the cadet he was marching behind. He feels a pang of relief in his heart: he’s just so grateful it wasn’t him. Disgust quickly replaces it. This was a fellow soldier! How dare he feel any sort of pleasure for their passing?

He rises to his knees and pauses, exhausted from the effort. His left arm is hanging at his side, glass embedded into it. He stares at it for a few seconds before using his other hand to roll the cadet over. Maybe there was still time to save them. He knows there is a tourniquet in his pack, perhaps he can stop the bleeding and drag them to base?

It’s a foolish endeavor, one he abandons as he realizes the other is long gone. Their helmet is shattered, the glasses digging into their face. One eye remains intact enough for him to see the death glaze. There is nothing he can do for this person now. He scans over their body mournfully, guilt eating at him. What a painful way to die. Did it hurt for long? He imagines those last few seconds must have felt like an eternity. He bows his head in grief, a few tears slipping past his eyes. To cry like this was a complete breach in protocol but what else can he do? Besides, who would report him for it? For all he knows, he is the only member of their unit to survive.

That thought tickles something inside him. The last survivor of Squadron 874K. Today must be a day for treason, because temptation has come. He doesn’t have to return to base. If they all presume him dead, there is no one to hunt him down for deserting his post. Seventy-Six stares at the corpse before him. What was there to stay for? He would be healed and shipped out to another fight, another place where Death would be waiting to take him with open arms. He has no friends or family to return to. It should be an impossible decision to make, yet he’s already moving, retrieving a small blade from his pack.

Reaching down he tenderly peels back some of the burning skin on the body’s arm. The sound it makes is enough to make him gag again, but he doesn’t stop until the serial number has been completely removed. The person before him is now nameless, but not for long. With a deep breath he rolls up his sleeve, thankful for the numb feeling in his left arm. This will certainly hurt. With precision he slices off the branded number, taking deep slow breaths to steel his nerves. The smell of blood is choking him but he can’t stop. If he does, someone might notice him.

With a final small tearing noise, the chunk of skin lays in his palm. He stares at it. For as long as he can remember, the numbers 27876 had adorned his forearm but here they were, removed. He gingerly replaces the dead cadet’s branding with his own, aware the gesture would be completely wasted on a corpse. He retrieves his pack off his shoulders, removing the almost invisible thread for suturing wounds on the go. He makes quick work of stitching it in place, not concerned with neatness. He doubts anyone would look too closely at it, assuming any damage would come from the bomb.

Once he finishes, he bandages his own arm before rolling his sleeves back down. He feels light-headed, but there’s still work to be done. He flips the corpse over again and removes their pack. He removes all the essential items he may need, like more bandages and food rations. He notices their oxygen tank is completely unharmed. What a lucky break for him. Replacing his own tank takes a few minutes, and while the tube is gone, he is overwhelmed with the taste of war. It’s hot and fiery, burning his lungs with every breath. He isn’t sure which part is worse, the meaty flavor in the air or the pebbles that find their way into his nose every few seconds.

After replacing the pack back onto the fallen soldier, he rises and takes one last look at them. He doesn’t know anything about who they were. Were they funny, or serious? Did they have a favorite color? Did they have family? Probably not, but then again how would he know. Perhaps the other cadets broke the rule regarding making connections. For a moment he wishes he had as well but decides there is no point in dwelling now. He salutes the soldier and turns to leave before the flash of plastic catches his eye.

The small figurine, although melted, is still recognizable. It’s a toy soldier, eerily reminiscent of the people he had flown here with. He kneels down and gently severs it from the belt, a string of plastic connecting the two. He holds the tiny trinket in the palm of his glove. He will take it with him, a token of the cadet who had inadvertently given him a second chance at life.

The soldier formerly known as 27876 isn’t sure where he plans to go next. All he knows is, he needs to get off this planet.


End file.
